Extra Cento Lines

Frost:
had terribly completed
Who share the unlit place with me –
he thought he kept the universe alone
the beast
your light was spent perhaps as in a fog
an arm worked like a saw
was that the flower might be
to comprehend.
you would not think you knew enough to judge
you were belittled into vilest worms
facing alone
and a voice that has sounded in my room
to comprehend
that is the source perhaps of human hate
rain was the tears adopted by my eyes
that have none left to stay
and landed pouring like a waterfall
and forced the underbrush – and that was all
is too much for the sense
I cannot touch your life, much less can save
to express how much it didn’t want to die
be all from that one day
what I myself have held. But why declare
too present to imagine
to were letting in the colder light
comprehend
much notice of what’s going on in stars
we can’t be trusted to the sleep we take
the age may very well have been to blame
but only by ignoring
while with the hating other hand we strike
as to whose age deserves the lower mark
some ignorance takes rank as innocence

Kinnell:
can hear the chime
the nerves which keep the book of solitude
as each root unclutches from its spot
the world with each thrash – the stream
to hold another in one’s arms – and unable
and the bodies of our hearts
of graves, and among the flowers of the flowers
back you go into your crib
each step a shockhere is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones
there is nothing, nothing
Can it ever be true –
the voices go out
the sadness of the wish
of everything I ever craved and lost
on the mercy of darkness, like the hen
tuck our head

Voight:
when it still seemed the future could be chosen
my soul refused to be comforted
how could that be her sister’s boy, asleep
like flicks of an insect’s wings or a reed’s whistle
the birds that go on nesting, the brilliant air
I prayed for my mortal soul as it contracted
one doesn’t notice the scythe of the beak at rest
and to god who thought to keep us here
and the old lives didn’t fit as they had before
and where there’d been a dream a stranger’s face
that the verb “choose” is stupid and unworthy
No, they’re not like us. This had no face
would not help most of us so why not now

Gluck:
saw not fate but simply
we can all write about suffering
to experience the violence of human feeling
the sweet notes of its longing to be human
we can all write about suffering
how you live in hell
permanently harmed but
We look at the world once, in childhood,
the rest is memory
after awhile, the streetlight goes out
But is waiting forever
a beautiful morning; nothing

Paley:
in their youth like aspen a bouquet
to live in this world at an absolute minimum
his eyes on the pavement how
full of familiar faces may
longings for the wide
home home
omits the verb to be
before your eyes then lies down to
Here we are now
when life had pages or decades to go
and were furiously saying goodbye
in the evening don’t lift your eyes from the paper
exhausting the merits
political position now out
pointing out in the sensible way
of protest as well as serious essays
is what we must do we must bear it

Stone:
some primitive thing goes with you
we took them every day into the sunlight
when I walk through the corridors of my dreams
the shadows of where you were
give back by brilliant ignorance
are washed away by the tides
Today, which could be tomorrow
today is thinly veiled
give back by brilliant ignorance
toward sunset, or those birds
we no longer recognize one another

Lea:
Moreover he’d been so sore so long
then nothing
For our wounds still feel ragged as if we were being eaten. We are.
Why then amid such blessedness –